In the midst of that solitude an awful sense of loneliness stole over the soul of the guilty man.
He was the murderer of his child. His wife was a captive in the hands of a robber, and his daughter Alice had gone to join in her captivity. All—all had left him.
He was alone in the world—he, who a few short hours before had been blessed with the happy companionship of wife and children. It was almost more than he could bear.
Mechanically he sought in the wagon for a shovel, and in a listless manner began to dig a grave.
The coyotes had smelt blood, and were barking at a distance.
Overhead flew the lazy buzzards, for their instinct, too, told them that death was near.
An hour's work made the grave deep enough for the body, and reverentially he laid it in.
When he had filled it up with earth he sought for stones and piled a rough cairn over all that remained of the once haughty and spoiled child, Harold.
Dropping a tear over the grave, Smithers struck the oxen with the whip, and the heavy wagon rolled sluggishly on toward Silver City.
Deep down in his breast Smithers carried his weight of woe, and vainly tried to drown his load of grief and care by repeated draughts of fiery spirits.